


the witch (melacine)

by julietcapulet



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietcapulet/pseuds/julietcapulet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cordelia allows herself to feel, Misty is the one demanding to be felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the witch (melacine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cissablack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissablack/gifts).



> **Title** : the witch (melacine)  
>  **Fandom** : American Horror Story: Coven.  
>  **Rating** : M.  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Cordelia/Misty.  
>  **Word Count** : 8650.  
>  **Warning(s)** : None, really.  
>  **Additional** : Many thanks to my beautiful and talented beta, [Dilara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laraclem), who helped me fix the many incarnations of this dumb thing. :)

“Geez Louise, Miss Cordelia, you’re gunna get wrinkles if you ain’t careful. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

Things aren’t getting any easier for Cordelia now that she is blind; and she doesn’t imagine things will _ever_ get any easier now that she is blind. Still, on the plus side, she’s able to see through everyone’s bullshit (is that really a plus, though, she wonders?) and determining deception from truth has never been simpler. This is especially handy in regard to her mother, who, of late, has been slinking around New Orleans like a cat in heat trying to find something or someone to reverse her natural aging and perhaps even give her immortality (though who would do such a thing and thus commit such a crime against humanity Cordelia can never guess). Either way, the only person in the nearby locale who has the power of resurgence is Misty Day; and the only person with the power of eternal life is the leader of the enemy voodoo tribe (and anyway the only living proof of the veracity of Marie Laveau’s powers is currently headless). Cordelia is no fool, and knows that once her mother discovers Misty Day is still alive she will come for her. But Misty is no fool, either, and as far as Cordelia is concerned she will ensure that Misty has absolutely nothing to do with Fiona. Cordelia is still the headmistress of this institution and though Misty is not a student, she is under Cordelia’s care regardless of her affiliation with the swamp. 

Despite the mounting anxiety Cordelia has about Misty she finds herself unexpectedly relaxing at the sound of Misty’s voice and feels the tension in her face settle. Still, she does not allow herself the luxury of a laugh. “That isn’t funny, Misty,” she says, a little tart. She’s sensitive about her disfigurement (which she finds is a reasonable thing to be sensitive about). “I doubt anyone will be looking at my face long enough to find wrinkles.” Granted, she’s not actually been able to _see_ her face since the incident (obviously), but she imagines it isn’t pretty. The gasps from her mother and everyone around her following the attack weren’t exactly heartening. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Misty offers, pacifying Cordelia with a soft chuckle. “Besides, it ain’t as bad as you think. It ain’t bad at all.”

Cordelia is by no means a vain woman but she _is_ conscious of her looks, just as her mother raised her to be, and not being able to see herself, to apply make-up to her own face, to fix her own hair, to dress herself every morning––well, it is startlingly difficult to suddenly have to rely on everyone else for such little things. “It certainly isn’t _good_ ,” she sighs, running a hand down her neck. “Anyway, I’m fine, Misty, I am. I’m just trying to check on my plants.”

“Let me help,” Misty says, eagerly taking a step forward. “Tell me what to look for and I’ll look for it. I’ll be your eyes, Miss Cordelia!” Some expression on Cordelia’s face betrays her hesitation and yet before Cordelia can say anything, Misty adds, “Come on, it’ll be fun!” 

“I don’t know. I’m sure you have better things to do than be my seeing-eye dog.” _Always with the self-deprecation, Cordelia_ , she hears her mother say in the back of her head. 

“Do you have a record player in here?” Misty asks, ignoring Cordelia’s comment entirely while running her fingers over a few of the leaves of a nearby plant. 

Cordelia hears the rustle of foliage and jumps in spite of herself. “Don’t touch anything until I identify it for you!” she cautions, nervously. The last thing she needs is for Misty to get any kind of allergic infection. “There should be a few pairs of gloves near the sink. Put them on, if you please. And bring a pair to me as well.” 

“So… no record player?” Misty presses, quirking a brow as her fingers casually curl away from a particularly menacing looking plant, as advised. 

“Not here, no,” Cordelia confesses. “I usually like it quiet in the greenhouse.”

Misty, having acquired the sets of gloves, swings forward and places a pair on Cordelia’s upturned palm before putting on her own pair. “Well, see, I work best when I got my Stevie playin’,” she says, earnestly. “Do you like Stevie Nicks?”

“I admit I haven’t really listened to––” Oh, God. Was Stevie a he or a she? Cordelia seems to remember hearing Fleetwood Mac on the radio when she was younger but right now she’s having trouble remembering… “––Stevie. Though,” she adds, quickly, “I haven’t listened to a lot of things. I’ve never really developed a specific taste for anything. But Stevie Nicks, she’s important to you, right?” Stevie is a she. That’s right. Thank God Cordelia remembered that, given the enormous reverence with which Misty speaks her name.

“She’s my queen,” Misty replies with such ardor and passion that Cordelia has to assume she’s starry-eyed. “I used to play her all the time back in the swamp, until she got broken.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, Misty,” Cordelia says, gently. “If you’d like, I can ask to borrow one of the girls’ record players. I’m sure one of them would be willing to share.” Though, truth be told, the girls would be more likely to have iPods than record players. Madison might have some kind of novelty item like a record player but who knows where all her things disappeared to when Fiona did away with her. Perhaps Spalding has one. 

“Oh, I’ll go ask, I don’t mind!” Misty exclaims, a sort of raw hope in her tone. “I managed to save _Bella Donna_ and I brought it with me. If I can find a record player then we can get some tunes in here. You’ll love Stevie, I know it!”

“Misty, I don’t––Misty?” 

Cordelia deduces by the hurried footsteps and giggles that the flighty witch has already fluttered off, abandoning Cordelia in the greenhouse with a pair of gloves and a dizzy head. Cordelia tries to rack her mind for any facts or tidbits of cultural information about Stevie Nicks, but in this vein she finds no success. She can date Stevie’s career, at least, to be between the 1970’s and 1980’s, given that she was constantly blaring on the radio whether with Fleetwood Mac or with her solo albums and Cordelia’s classmates constantly listened to the radio. She can’t recall any of Stevie’s hit songs, though; she remembers the titles, vaguely, but the melodies elude her. And if her patchy memory serves right, she never actually _enjoyed_ listening to any of the songs. Either way, Misty doesn’t have to know that. It doesn’t matter. Cordelia’s skilled at feigning interest; it’s what she has to do to survive, after all.

“Back!” And from the sound of her voice, Cordelia judges her to be triumphant in her endeavors. “That didn’t take long. This house has got everything! Now, let me find a place to hook this up… Here we are!”

Incredible, Cordelia thinks to herself, somewhat awed. The girls must have had one after all. Lucky Misty ( _un_ lucky Cordelia).

“You’re gunna love this, Miss Cordelia, I promise,” and Cordelia wills herself to smile at the sheer innocent excitement in Misty’s voice. The title song sparks to life after a few moments and Misty is fast at Cordelia’s side, smug and satisfied with herself. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m ready now. Where do we start?”

“Comfrey root,” Cordelia states, straining to think over the ambient music. “It’s near the corner of the greenhouse, to the left.” She starts forward, rather helplessly shuffling her stick around. 

“I got it,” Misty assures her, twirling forward to the place Cordelia described. “This little guy with the weepy purple flowers and big ol’ leaves? Don’t see no roots, though,” she observes, thoughtfully.

“Yes, the roots aren’t ready to be harvested yet. They’re still deep beneath the soil. If you wouldn’t mind, could you water it, please?”

“No problem,” she says, with a grin. “I love watering plants. I find it so calming, you know?” She stoops to a crouch and hums along with the song, muttering a few lyrics under her breath as she trickles fresh water over the base of the comfrey plant. The sunlight filters through the windows above and glitters against the freshly moist soil and Misty wishes Cordelia could see it. “So what does this comfrey root stuff do?”

“It’s used primarily as a tool for healing,” Cordelia explains. “I’ll show you how it works sometime, when the roots are done growing.”

“I’ll hold you to that, boss,” Misty smirks, straightening her back as she stands. “What’s next?”

“Ember flowers. They should be very close to the comfrey, as they’re both used for healing. They have a strong, sweet smell and are named after their resemblance to the glowing of a fire’s embers. Do you see them?”

“These are beautiful, Miss Cordelia,” Misty whispers, dusting a gloved finger over one of its petals. 

“Yes, and very rare. They’re one of my favorites here.”

“Ssh! Don’t let the others hear you sayin’ that,” Misty warns, utterly serious in contrast to her usual carelessness. “They’ll stop grown’ on you. Happened to me back on the swamp. Said one bad thing ‘bout some algae and never saw it again.” 

“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for its disappearance, Misty,” Cordelia attempts to placate her, and Misty, not at all mollified, shrugs her shoulders.

“Nah, plants got a mind of their own. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, boss. Want me to water these ember flowers too?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.” 

“Oh––what’s this one do?”

A little exasperated that she can’t see what Misty is excited over, she asks, hastily, “Describe it to me.”

“It smells kinda weird. And it’s soupy, like. Slimy.” 

“What color is it?”

“Gray.”

“Dark or light?”

“Dark, I think.” 

“Graymold,” Cordelia says, diagnosing the subject of Misty’s curiosity with ease. “It’s very useful in its––well, why don’t you tell me, Misty. If it’s grouped near the ember flowers and comfrey root, can you guess its primary use?”

“Healin’, right?”

“Right,” Cordelia confirms. She feels herself smile. She’d forgotten how good teaching feels. Since her attack there hasn’t been much by way of lessons at Robichaux’s and Cordelia blames herself for that.

“I’d love to learn all about these,” Misty declares, full of sincerity. “All I know is what I taught myself in the swamp, but I want to know more. I want to know what you know, Miss Cordelia. Will you teach me?”

“Of course,” Cordelia agrees, and something in her heart quickens with heat. “I’d love to teach you.”

The moment of warmth evaporates, though, when the record changes songs and Misty exclaims, “Oh, Miss Cordelia! I know we’re in the middle of something, but this song––you gotta dance to this one. It was written for dancin’. I’d feel wrong standing still while it’s playin’. Come on, please?” 

“Oh, I––Misty, I have never been a dancer, really, and I do have to get this done, with the plants––”

“ _Just like a white winged dove sings a song, sounds like she’s singin’…_ Come on, boss! Them plants can last a minute longer without water. They’re dancin’ too!”

Before Cordelia has an opportunity to ask Misty what she means, she feels her wrists being tugged forward by Misty’s warm dewy hands (free from their gloves) and she breaks, with a gasp, into a vision (as she always does with skin to skin contact). It’s a very brief vision––a beautiful blonde girl twirling her shawl in a dim, murky shack as this exact same song curdles through the hot, thick air in the background. A terrible feeling of loneliness, of not belonging. An unspeakable isolation; and suffocating fear. 

“You okay there?” Misty asks, as Cordelia comes to. “It’s okay, Stevie has that effect on people. You wouldn’t be the first to react like that to good music. We still got the whole song, though! Keep it together and dance with me!”

And after feeling that despair and solitude Cordelia doesn’t know how to deny Misty _anything_. But––God, why _this_ , of all things? “Well, okay,” she cedes, timidly, “but I––”

“Ssh, I’ll teach you,” Misty silences her; as her walking stick tumbles forward with a loud clap onto the ground, Cordelia inches forward uncertainly with her feet, guided by Misty’s firm grasp. “Now we twirl, alright? Lemme help you. Reach out your arms. Take off them nasty gloves. Like that, good. Now––” Misty snakes her hands out from Cordelia’s shoulder blades all the way down to her palms so that their arms are flush against one another, “––I’m gunna take your hands––” her hand coils around Cordelia’s and she knots their fingers together, “––and I’m gunna move ‘em around.” Misty presses her body securely against Cordelia’s back and gingerly lurches them both into a slow movement. “Easy does it, don’t wanna knock over any of your plant friends, do we?” 

Cordelia doesn’t know if it’s the feeling of Misty’s heart beating against her back or if it’s the feeling of Misty’s warm breath on her neck or if it’s the earthy smell of Misty’s hair behind her, but she feels–– _good_. She feels safe. Which she hasn’t felt, not since the attack. Not with her mother. Not with Auntie Myrtle. Not with the girls. And certainly not with Hank. But right now, with Stevie Nicks blaring in the corners of her mind and Misty’s firm hold on her, Cordelia feels that she is losing herself. Just a little bit. And it’s effortless.

“This song is really special,” Misty murmurs after a silence, the apex of the song underscoring her words. “I don’t like to pick favorites, but if I did, it’d be this one. It was playin’ in my head when I woke up after I died. Must have had it stuck in there when my friends set me on fire,” she chuckles inappropriately at the memory, and Cordelia wonders if Misty ever takes anything seriously––or if she merely deflects her grief with laughter and the voice of her self-professed queen. Either way, it’s remarkable, the way she speaks, the way she remembers, the way she thinks. 

Cordelia finds herself lulled into closing her eyelids as she listens to the song––she wants to smile, she thinks, but instead, “You know you’re safe here, Misty. We’re family now. We’ll always protect you.”

“Only if you let me protect you too, boss,” Misty retorts, continuing to walk Cordelia around in slow, narrow circles (simple choreography for the blind, if you will). “You’re gettin’ the hang of it! Soon we’ll have to get you a shawl and you can twirl all on your own. It ain’t gunna be a black shawl, though. There’s too much black here. What this place needs is color.” 

“You’re right, Misty. It does.” 

The song ends but Cordelia feels that this moment will never actually be over; this closeness to someone else––it’s intoxicating. Or, perhaps it is _Misty_ who is intoxicating. Either way, Cordelia is suspended in space somewhere between calm and happy and is several orbits away from stress, when––

“Alright then, back to work!” Misty slides herself off Cordelia abruptly, and Cordelia wavers a little as she struggles to regain footing. “Oh, sorry ‘bout that! There we go.” She steadies Cordelia on her feet and fetches her the walking stick. “So, what’s next?”

“Um,” Cordelia starts, a little disoriented after being set upright again (and after the extremely rapid change in Misty’s objectives). She clears her throat and in so doing the barrage of stress she’d been staving off for the past two minutes comes rushing back to her. Her heart knots up, hands tensing around her stick. She fumbles for the gloves Misty had removed moments ago and, once Misty senses what she’s searching for and hands them to her, Cordelia affords herself a small sigh. “Glowing nettle,” she says. “That’s next.”

“Stevie’s supposed to take _away_ wrinkles, not bring ‘em back,” Misty says, noticing the strain on Cordelia’s face once more. “Why don’t you let me clean up in here, water the rest of ‘em myself? You look like you could use a rest, Miss Cordelia.” 

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that, Misty. Besides,” she confides, quietly, “you’re right. Being with the plants is calming. I feel safer here than I do anywhere else. You understand that, right?”

“’Course I do,” Misty is quick to respond. “Well then, let’s keep goin’! Nettles watered. What’s next?”

Cordelia smiles. “Belladonna,” she says. 

And Misty’s shriek of delight is so strong that Cordelia swears she can almost _see_ it.

 

 

 

When she regains her vision, the first thing she wants to see is Misty. She doesn’t know why. After the time they’d spent together last night Cordelia regards the swamp witch with a certain degree of fondness that isn’t present for her other pupils. Misty is closer to her in age, after all, and she’s been the most attentive aside from Nan. Cordelia thinks that she and Misty may have a connection of some sort, and she’s eager to explore it with her own eyes.

Either way, Misty _isn’t_ the first thing she sees. It’s Auntie Myrtle, of course, followed by the girls, followed by her mother. In fact it’s Misty who she sees _last_. And, when she does, “Oh my god!” the witch exclaims, tumbling forward to wrap Cordelia in a tight hug. She smells of incense, swamp, and music. “You got your eyes back!”

“Not mine,” Cordelia corrects, the breath squeezed out of her by Misty’s hold. “But they’re as good as.”

“Well, I guess you won’t need me to be your seein’ eye dog no more,” she breathes, pulling back from the hug. “Look at that.” Misty’s fingers trace over the scars left behind from the acid attack, but her real focus are the curves and dips and valleys and colors in Cordelia’s new eyes. “This calls for a celebration, you know.”

Cordelia still feels weird about celebrating the fact that Myrtle procured eyeballs from some mysterious donors who wish to remain anonymous; it reeks of bullshit, as Fiona would say, but unlike Fiona Myrtle is a thousand times more trustworthy and Cordelia allows herself to ignore the shady circumstances of her returned vision––ignore it, yes, but perhaps not _celebrate_ it.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Cordelia deflects, airily. “I’d much rather just get back to life as usual. I’ve caused enough of a fuss already. But,” she offers, as Misty twists her lips into an understanding smile, “I do want to repay you for what you did last night. It was very sweet of you to help me when I’m sure you could have been doing a thousand other things, and––”

“Don’t even sweat it, Miss Cordelia, it was my pleasure. I told you, I wanna learn as much as I can from you, and last night was only the beginning. Right?” 

“Of course, Misty,” Cordelia agrees. “That’s why I was hoping you’d accompany to the greenhouse. I can much better explain to you all the different types of plants I have now that I can see them again.”

Misty’s face breaks out into a grin and she nods fervently. Before fully agreeing, however, she stops, bites on her lower lip and asks, innocently, as if she already knows the answer, “Can I bring Stevie?”

 

 

 

What begins as a pleasant herbalism session ends in a deadlocked marital debacle and Cordelia doesn’t forgive herself for exposing Misty to that. 

Cordelia avoids Misty for the whole day after the incident with Hank. She sees her around but it’s uncomfortable; tense. She shouldn’t have asked Misty to stay, to serve as a buffer between her and her idiotic ex-husband. She shouldn’t have brought Misty into any of it. But she did and she doesn’t even know _why_. She hardly knows Misty and yet she felt safer with Misty when Hank came barking up her tree again. It makes absolutely no sense. Misty may be Cordelia’s pupil now but she is in every regard superior to her, and when she takes up the mantle of the Supreme Cordelia doubts there will be anything Misty _can’t_ do. _Then_ it would make sense to feel safe with her. But now? Now, she’s just a swamp witch with the power of resurgence and a love for a washed up diva from the eighties. There’s nothing Misty could protect Cordelia from except death, and that isn’t what she’s afraid of when it comes to Hank.

Though, truth be told, it should be.

The news comes to her the next morning when she’s in her bedroom dressing for the day. She’s standing in front of the mirror staring at herself because she never thought she’d be able to stare at herself again. Her glossy silk robe hangs disheveled over her frame and she’s going to get dressed, she is, but she wants to just… _look_ at herself for a moment first. The scars over her eyes aren’t bad, like Misty said. They’re certainly not flattering or beautiful but they aren’t terrible and really, what more could Cordelia ask for. She can see and that’s all that matters. Scars mean nothing now that she has her eyes. Or––someone else’s eyes. She has _eyes_ and that’s all she’s going to think about.

“Delia, honey, we have to talk. Turns out your taste in men is even worse than I thought.”

It’s her mother’s voice and it’s achingly triumphant, which usually means bad news for Cordelia. She turns around and––well, it would be an understatement to say she is surprised. 

“Mother––? Miss Laveau? I don’t understand. I thought––”

“It’s about Hank, Delia.” 

Right before Cordelia’s world changes forever she sees a glint in her mother’s eye that whispers, _I told you so_.

 

 

 

 _Ding, dong! The witch hunter is dead!_ And Cordelia is a widow before she gets the luxury of being a divorcee. 

She isn’t sure how she feels. People keep asking her if she’s alright because they all know how betrayed and stupid and lead on and beguiled she must feel, but honestly? Cordelia feels nothing. She feels nothing for the man she tried to build a life with because as it turns out their marriage was a lie and he probably felt nothing for her, either.

Legally, Hank didn’t leave her much. She doesn’t want his blood money anyhow. She wants to erase any part of him that still fogs her newly restored vision because right now she can’t _afford_ to be blindsided with grief––not with the rest of his pack barking up Robichaux’s tree. She has a coven––a family––to protect, and nothing, not even his deception and death, will get in her way.

Deflection. A tactic she once thought Misty Day practiced flawlessly and one she knows her mother has perfected since the day she crawled into this godforsaken world. 

“Miss Cordelia. I thought I might find you here.”

“Misty,” Cordelia says, recognizing the voice before turning around to greet its face. “How can I help you?”

Cordelia is avoiding Misty, she is. After what Misty saw, and after the darkest part of Cordelia’s faux husband was exposed, she can’t face her. She can’t face anyone, but most of all, her. Hank is a part of Cordelia that she wishes everyone could forget. Cordelia’s made a lot of mistakes in her life but taking a witch hunter between her legs certainly is the most impressive, and she’s supposed to be a role model to these girls not a fucking _cautionary tale_.

“You’ve been avoiding me. I wish I knew why. Thought I watered your plants just fine.”

“No, Misty, you did. I just––haven’t felt like seeing anyone recently. I hope you understand.” Cordelia’s working on a potion and she’s not looking up, she’s not going to look Misty in the eyes.

Misty nods somewhat unconvinced and takes a step forward. “You know, Miss Cordelia,” she starts, “when everyone I loved burned me alive, I had a crisis too, like yours. Difference is that I was alone when I started breathin’ again. Difference is that you _ain’t_ alone. You have a whole gosh damned _tribe_. So maybe,” she says, stepping back, toward the door, “you should let ‘em in.”

She disappears through the frame.

And Cordelia, alone, sighs.

 

 

 

“I wanted a family with Hank. I wanted to be the mother of his child. When I found out I couldn’t have children, I thought I failed him. I wanted to be a good wife because my mother never was and I wanted to be a good mother because my mother never tried to be. I wanted––I wanted a family with Hank.”

“Miss Cordelia? What are you doin’?”

It’s one o’clock in the morning and Cordelia doesn’t know what she’s doing, only that she’s _doing_ it; standing in the doorway of Misty’s bedroom, shaking, tears in her borrowed eyes, and, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And I’m letting you in because you’re the only one I can burden with this. The others are too young and I am their teacher. It wouldn’t be appropriate. But you––you’re… different. You’re part of my tribe and I’m letting you in.”

“Come ‘ere.”

Obediently, Cordelia slinks forward and sits on Misty’s bed, absently swiping the tears from her face. Their saltiness stings on her scars, the scars that have long since begun to heal but still ache from time to time as the tissue repairs; sensitive, like her (when she allows herself to be). 

“I got a song for this,” she says, suddenly, sliding out of bed to hustle over to her record player. “Madison loaned me some money to buy more Stevie,” she admits, sheepishly. “I promised I’d pay ‘er back, of course. Now, this is an important song, too. It was playin’ in the greenhouse a while back though I don’t suppose you’d remember, given that you were distracted.”

 _Kind of Woman_ starts its haunting melody and Misty returns to her bed. “Stevie’s been where you are too, Miss Cordelia. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Listen to Stevie. Come ‘ere.”

Cordelia does as she’s bid and scoots closer, curling up beside Misty on the bed. Misty shimmies over to the other side to make room, and the heat her body left suddenly tingles on Cordelia’s skin. Without prompting, she lays her head first on the pillow and then on Misty’s shoulder. She begins to weep.

“Oh,” Misty says, embracing the sudden display of trust. “That’s right, Miss Cordelia, you just let it out––let all them demons out. I got you tonight. Don’t you worry.”

She falls asleep in Misty’s arms with Stevie’s song of betrayal humming like a lullaby in the background. 

Before she drifts off completely she swears she feels Misty press a tender kiss to the top of her head. Maybe she dreamed it.

Somehow she feels dirty for wishing she didn’t.

 

 

 

The next time she sees Misty is in the greenroom again (their neutral ground, or some such conceit) and Cordelia’s spent the past few hours working on a serum to help Madison’s recovery from death (because lord knows the girl complains about it every chance she gets––though, Cordelia supposes, it’s a legitimate thing to complain about, however irksome it can get at times). She’s able to focus on something she can _control_ , which is nice, because last night, with Misty, _that_ was out of control, that was… _terribly_ inappropriate and she isn’t even sure what compelled her to do such a thing (only she knew that she _had_ to do it because there were metaphorical strings at her ankles tethered to the bedposts in Misty’s room and someone was reeling them in and, well, there you have it). But now, at least, she can revel in some privacy. Clear her head. Think about anything other than Misty Day and how sweet she smells in the middle of the night, and––

“Hey.” 

––and how sweet her voice is when it blooms unexpectedly out of silence.

“Misty.”

“I just came to check on you. Hope you’re feeling better after your cry last night.”

Cordelia’s too embarrassed to raise her head and look at Misty (who deserves so much more than an askance glance, honestly, but Cordelia doesn’t have it in her), and merely nods. “Yes,” she says, softly. “Thank you.”

It’s silent again, for a moment, while Misty wends her way forward, inching closer to the headmistress (who feels, to her, like a bird of rare plumage trapped in a too-small cage, anxious and terrified and ready to snap at anyone who dares get too close). She briefly considers brushing back a piece of wayward hair from Cordelia’s cheek but thinks twice, instead settling her restless hands by folding her arms over her chest. “So, whatcha doin’, boss? More juju for Madison?”

“How’d you know?” Cordelia asks, and without noticing the closer proximity of them both she makes the mistake of looking up and seeing much more than she wanted––Misty’s hair pulled back in a haphazard, disheveled tail, her fair eyes glimmering gently in the placid botanical light, pink lips twisted into a curious half-smile. Cordelia swallows and returns her gaze to her specimen––to safety (there is something potent and beautiful and frightening and unsettling in Misty’s eyes and if Cordelia looks too long she might forget to ever look away). 

“She mentioned something about it at breakfast,” Misty confesses, with a shrug. “Didn’t know it was a secret.”

“It’s not, exactly,” Cordelia corrects. “Just not something I thought she’d wish to discuss. I aim to keep her privacy, even if she won’t keep it herself.” That girl is a constant surprise and conundrum. Cordelia isn’t certain where exactly her priorities lie but they certainly don’t lie with her _self_.

“Oh, well,” Misty starts, with a roll of her shoulders, “I won’t say nothing’ if you don’t want me to, Miss Cordelia.” She leans forward from behind Cordelia, her hair ghosting over Cordelia’s shoulder. “Sure does stink, though,” she observes, wrinkling her nose. “Tell me the poor girl doesn’t have to _drink_ that.”

“Actually, yes,” Cordelia states, proverbial feathers slightly ruffled by Misty’s closeness. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Damn it, why is she so damned uncomfortable around Misty now? Because they shared one night of emotional intimacy? _It was hardly sex, Cordelia, get over it._ And yet. And _yet_. Something inside her definitely has that “morning after” feel of exposure and regret and contentment and she resents it because what does it all _mean_? Cordelia’s always been one to play by the rules; systematic, logical, point A to point B. But this is different and it’s something she can’t identify. Logic doesn’t apply to Misty Day (or to _any_ of the witches at Robichaux’s, really). Under the influence of magic is reason forgone and god damn it what Cordelia would give to get it back, make sense of the prescient oncoming storm that is her garbled life and take control once more. 

But for now, she can’t. For now, all she can do is work on this serum and listen to Misty’s voice and ignore how it makes her spine tingle with a specific type of energy that she hasn’t felt in a long while and pray that it goes away because the _implications_ are troublesome and Cordelia doesn’t have the time nor the energy for _troublesome_ right now.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I’m really going to be the next Supreme?”

“Auntie Myrtle seems to think so,” Cordelia bounces back. “She’s seen a Supreme chosen before.”

“But do _you_ think I will be?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Once the Supreme has been chosen there is no room for doubt.”

“But who chooses her?”

“Forces beyond our control.” 

Misty, dissatisfied with the answer, rolls back on the heels of her feet and sucks on her lower lip. “I don’t want to be the next Supreme,” she says, finally, echoing her confession on the night they performed that terrifying ritual in anticipation of Fiona’s death. “I’m not a leader like you, Miss Cordelia. I don’t know the first thing about leading.”

“You’ll learn,” is all Cordelia says, pinching some fluid out of a dropper and into her glass flask, which was swirling with a few noxious looking colors (and was emitting an even more noxious smell). “If my mother can do it, so can you.” And she means that. She does. Fiona is positively the _worst_ Supreme the coven has ever had. Misty can do _her_ worst and still be better just for trying––just for recognizing the gravity of the position and having the proper amount of reverence for it, even if that reverence is grounded primarily in fear. _Fear_. Good. That’s something Fiona never had––at least, not in the right ways. A little fear in a leader does a world of good, or so Cordelia has come to believe.

“I don’t know about all that.” Misty shakes her head, sitting down on the vacated stool opposite Cordelia. This action causes Cordelia to lift her head from her work and look sideways at the woman. She feels an itch at the back of her eyes that can only be soothed when she’s looking at Misty, and––how did all of this happen? “I wish I could be more like you,” Misty confides, sighing at herself. “You know what you’re doin’, Miss Cordelia, and all the girls respect you and look up to you. I’d give anything to have ‘em look at me like that. To look at me and know I’m gunna protect ‘em. But I’m not sure they ever will. I’m not sure the powers that be made a great decision in choosing me for this gig. I’m not the right girl.”

“No, Misty, that isn’t true.” Cordelia finally slides around to face Misty, reaching forward tentatively and looping their fingers together with a slight tremble (that doesn’t go totally unnoticed by the other party). “You have so much power,” she insists with a severe yet gentle intensity, “yet you don’t abuse it. You’re kind and cautious and tender. You’re everything this coven needs.” _You’re what I need, too,_ she hears herself think, and it causes her to drop Misty’s hands abruptly. She hesitates briefly, eyes fixed on Misty’s, before she returns to her potion. “You just have to believe in yourself like I believe in you, that’s all.”

Misty senses the tension in Cordelia and softens, concerned. She’s not an idiot. She knows they’ve gotten closer over the past few days, seemingly overnight, and she knows that Cordelia is a very collected and reserved person who likes to erect walls and hide her feelings. Her relationship with Misty is markedly different than any relationship she’s ever had before, or so is Misty’s theory. Perhaps it would put Cordelia’s mind at rest to disengage for a bit, back off, give her some space––but at the same time, Misty’s never felt this kind of connection before and she doesn’t want to walk away. 

Misty is Rhiannon and Cordelia is her Melacine. In a platonic way, of course (or so she keeps reminding herself––Cordelia has been married before, as in to a _man_ , and very recently has been widowed, too, so she’s not even remotely likely to think of Misty in that way, however much Misty believes she might want her to). And anyway, Misty needs friends. _Friends_. Tribe. Nothing else. Not right now, and possibly not ever. As far as she’s heard the Supremes don’t have a great track record of maintaining healthy families and that, after all, is Misty’s destiny (but Cordelia will be there, as a friend, as an adviser, as the headmistress of Robichaux’s, as a member of the coven, and isn’t that all Misty wants, to have someone to trust implicitly, to rely on for guidance and support?). 

So, Misty can’t complain. She really can’t.

And she’s happy. She really is. Isn’t she?

“It’s nice of you to believe in me,” she says, quietly. “Don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that. But thank you.”

“You’ve saved a lot of people without asking for anything in return,” Cordelia supplies, “including Auntie Myrtle. You didn’t know her and yet you pulled her out of the ashes and restored her to life. You’re special, Misty. You’re one of a kind.”

“I know what it’s like to be burned alive. I couldn’t leave her like that,” Misty admits with a shake of her head. “You’d have done the same.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to find human compassion around here,” Cordelia dissents. “Not everyone would use your gifts for good, if given the chance. You must know that.”

“Yeah,” Misty agrees, tiredly. She doesn’t like thinking about what might have been if the stars had aligned differently. It’s dangerous to think that way, she’s learned, and she refuses to do it (she wonders if it’s in the land of what-could-have-been that Cordelia spends all her time, mulling over her mistakes and wishing over missed chances). 

“There are many evil people in this world,” Cordelia says, faintly, because she’s seen evil and it terrifies her.

“But not you,” Misty starts, without hesitation. “You’re one of the good ones.”

“Born from one of the ultimate evils.” The image of Fiona flickers in Cordelia’s mind and she feels the muscles in the back of her neck tighten at the sight (sometimes she hates her blood so much that she wants to peel at her eyelids and crawl out of her own skin). 

“Doesn’t make you evil,” Misty says, laying a diffident hand over Cordelia’s back. At the contact, Cordelia drops what she’s doing and turns to face Misty, eyes glimmering with a mix of shame and gratitude. Without prompting, Misty reaches her other hand forward and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind Cordelia’s ear. “Makes you stronger.”

“Misty, I––” Cordelia begins, feeling herself shiver at Misty’s touch, “I really have to focus on this. I’m sorry. Can we talk later?”

“Oh, ‘course!” Misty says, a little too brightly, popping up immediately from the stool. “Sorry to distract you, boss.”

“I’ll see you at dinner?” Cordelia asks, politely. 

“Yeah,” Misty answers, overly cheerful. “Yeah. See you then.”

Cordelia doesn’t feel any better after Misty leaves.

In fact, she feels a little _worse_.

 

 

 

Dinner comes and somehow Misty manages to sit next to Cordelia (and from across the table Nan grins privately because she knows exactly what’s going on and she’s the one who traded seats with Misty so that Misty could sit next to Cordelia because _Christ_ if she could get these two to _stop thinking_ so much about one other then maybe Nan would get some sleep at night).

(But perhaps Nan’s plan backfires because Misty’s and Cordelia’s thoughts are louder than they’ve ever been and soon the clairvoyant is rolling her eyes at them and stabbing her fork into her potatoes because is she _seriously_ the only one who sees this?) 

Despite Nan’s efforts dinner carries on as stilted and quiet as always, the weight of Queenie’s absence too heavy on anyone for it to be anything else.

 

 

 

Later that evening, Misty is restless.

She needs to see Cordelia. She doesn’t know why.

With the promise of the Seven Wonders hanging over her head, she’s anxious as ever and what if she can’t do it? If she can’t perform then she isn’t the Supreme, and––and then who _is_ the Supreme? Worse, what will Cordelia think of her then?

Sighing, Misty shoves herself off her bed, gathers one of her favorite shawls around her nightgown, and heads out the bedroom door into the hallway. Her bare feet stick to the floor and she shivers, wondering why the _hell_ she’s even doing this, but, well, Cordelia did this to _her_ so it’s only fair, right? This evens the score.

She stands in front of Cordelia’s door and touches her palm to its cool surface, and she swears she can hear Cordelia’s soft breath on the other side. For a moment she remains there, breathing in tandem with the woman inside, before lightly pushing it open and stepping over the threshold.

To her surprise, Cordelia is awake. 

“What if I fail?” she blurts out, before Cordelia, sitting on her bed with a book, even has the chance to register that she has company. “I’ve never been good at tests, and I hardly know what in the hell I’m doin’ here to begin with. And if I fail, I’m gonna disappoint everyone. Includin’ you. I don’t wanna fail my tribe. I don’t wanna fail _you_. So what do I do, Miss Cordelia? What if I fail? What if I ain’t the next Supreme?”

Cordelia furrows her brows and tries to stifle the growing heat in her chest at the sight of Misty, frazzled from an unsuccessful attempt at sleep, standing in her doorway. “Misty,” she says, soothingly, “you aren’t going to fail anyone.” 

Misty lets out a haggard sigh and ambles forward to Cordelia’s bed, sitting on its edge (and she can smell Cordelia’s perfume and see a flash of white skin beneath Cordelia’s nightgown). “I finally found my tribe, but I never wanted to be its leader,” she confesses, shaking her head. “Miss Cordelia, what happens if I fail?”

“You won’t fail. I promise,” she asserts, laying a hand over Misty’s tentatively. The touch charges an electric current through Misty’s veins. 

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I do. You’re one of the strongest people I know. I wish you could believe in yourself like I believe in you. If anyone can lead this tribe it’s you.”

Misty’s eyes shyly lift to meet Cordelia’s, and in her gaze is a profound mixture of longing and terror. “Promise you’ll never leave,” she says, suddenly intensifying. “Promise that if I do get through this you’ll be there to help me afterward. I can’t do it alone, and if there’s anyone I want by my side it’s you. I never met anyone smarter than you, Miss Cordelia. I don’t care if you say Fiona is the leader of this coven. I’ll never stop believin’ it’s you. So promise you’ll stay and help me lead if I get through this. I,” she stops, bites her lip, “I _need_ you.”

“Always,” Cordelia vows, wavering slightly (because her ears are still digesting what Misty’s saying and her ribs are struggling to keep her heart contained), a warm smile touching her eyes, “I promise. But,” she stipulates, shifting forward, “call me Cordelia. We’re equals, Misty. No need for titles.”

“Can I say somethin’, Cordelia?”

“Of course.”

Misty leans forward, places her other hand on top of Cordelia’s. Something sharp pricks into her heart at the contact. Cordelia’s eyes flicker down to their hands and she stiffens, heart beating an uneven tattoo in her throat. 

“I love you,” she says, instantly. When Cordelia doesn’t respond immediately, she adds, tripping over her own words, “You are Melacine.” (Not everyone knows every single Stevie Nicks song, Misty, she inwardly berates herself.) “Which is an unfinished song––the words go like this,” she clears her throat and starts to recite the lyrics, just barely singing them (where her strength came to actually _sing_ she has no idea, though her guess is it’s probably from Stevie because that’s where all her strength is coming from these days). “‘She was not lonely, she lived on herbs and her sense for a dream, and such a beauty was Melacine, Melacine was a beauty.’ It was just a demo, it never got produced officially, so it’s just this raw, incomplete song that pierces your soul and––I’m sorry, I know this is sudden, but on account of the Seven Wonders bein’ in a few days I need to get this out in case somethin’ happens to me and this ain’t really the reason why I came here tonight, by the way I‘m sorry for bargin’ in like this in the middle of the night, and, Christ, Cordelia, say _somethin’_.”

“Christ,” Cordelia echoes, before launching herself forward and crashing their lips together. “I love you,” she whispers. Breathe. Kiss. Repeat. Her lungs are on fire and Misty’s shuddering under her touch and she smells of nature and incense and sweat and everything is _right_ with the world in this moment. 

“You do?” Misty asks, gasping against Cordelia’s mouth.

“ _Yes_ ,” Cordelia affirms, clutching at Misty’s shoulders to pull her closer. She slips the shawl off and slides her hands over Misty’s bare shoulders, moving her lips down to Misty’s neck, and, oh, _Christ_ , Cordelia allows herself the luxury of a guttural moan against Misty’s neck as she drags Misty down on top of her and Misty swallows Cordelia’s lips in a rain of kisses, running her hands over Cordelia’s breasts––and Cordelia _breaks_ , an electric shock tingling through her veins as she wraps her legs around Misty and digs her nails into her back.

Misty inhales sharply and clamps her hands into Cordelia’s hair, tugging at it as the friction between their bodies intensifies and _she needs to feel all of her_ right now so _why are they still wearing clothes_? With shaking hands Cordelia helps Misty shimmy out of her nightgown and Misty in turn aids the headmistress in undressing––she hears a little rip in the fabric but she can’t care right now, she’ll sew it later, because, _oh_ , Misty’s got her deft fingers working the clasp of Cordelia’s bra, and Cordelia’s panting, now, because it’s been _so long_ and she can feel Misty’s heart beating and––

When her breasts are free and only her panties remain as a barrier between the two women, Cordelia’s borrowed eyes darken and she tilts her head back with a muffled cry as Misty’s tongue finds its way to her nipple and, oh _Christ_ , she’s so warm and soft and––Cordelia arches off the bed to allow Misty better purchase and grabs frantically at Misty’s thighs and before she knows it she’s flipping the younger woman onto her back and peppering her neck with kisses because she can’t wait any longer to take control. 

She bites her lip and pulls off her underwear, straddling Misty with an almost bashful need. Misty responds to her weight with a smile and a groan, hands latching onto Cordelia’s hips, encouraging her to find a steady rhythm against her inner thigh. 

“Misty, I––I’ve never done this before,” she says, bashfully, “with a girl.”

“You’re doin’ fine,” Misty exhales, with a chuckle. “Go on, follow your impulse. I’ll guide you.”

Cordelia staves off her fretfulness and crawls down Misty’s torso to the meeting of her thighs, parting her legs somewhat roughly in order to press her tongue against the soft moistness she finds there. Misty whimpers and her pelvic muscles tighten. “Good,” she validates, and soon she’s timidly rocking back and forth against Cordelia’s mouth (that almost undoes Cordelia right then and there) and begging for release. Breathless, Cordelia replaces her tongue with her finger, swirling circles around Misty’s core until Misty’s keening with want and grabs Cordelia’s hand, jerking it forward, and the implications are clear––Cordelia dips one finger, then two, inside Misty, curling her fingertips within her until Misty’s chest is heaving and her eyelids are burning and her breath comes in rapid, shallow wheezes and she’s exploding under her skin. Cordelia stretches to Misty’s chest and leaves wet kisses at her breasts, and before she knows it Misty’s gyrating under her, so close––and Cordelia finds the pressure inside of her building, too, as Misty’s does, and her hand is getting tired but she’s going as fast as she can and maybe it would help if she moves other hand back to find the nerves between Misty’s legs and oh, yes, turns out that _does_ help, and then Misty stops moving, every muscle in her body congealing into one solid, immoveable mass and––

The swamp witch climaxes with an immeasurable shudder and an utterance of Cordelia’s name. 

Cordelia pulls her hands away from Misty but remains frozen above her, watching silently as Misty recovers from her orgasm, hers and Misty’s breath simultaneously coming in faded waves. For a moment they remain there, suspended in triumphant euphoria, Misty’s vision stultified by her sated pleasure, Cordelia’s hand cramping slightly. 

When she’s able to focus again, Misty reaches her hand down to the base of Cordelia’s underwear and slides her fingers underneath the fabric, eliciting a violent tremor from the woman above her. Misty grins, and Cordelia’s body sags against her hand. She tumbles down to the side of the bed unoccupied by Misty and Misty rolls over to mount her, running her palms over the expanse of pale flesh all the way down to tug Cordelia’s panties off and toss them across the room (along with the rest of their discarded clothing). “Oh, God,” Cordelia breathes, as Misty’s hand finds its way between her legs.

“God ain’t invited,” Misty chuckles, leaning down to nip at Cordelia’s ear.

Cordelia’s hips buck against Misty’s hand and she shivers as her arousal builds to a nearly unmanageable level. Sensing this, Misty decides to have a little fun teasing her––she crouches lower and sets her face between Cordelia’s legs, tongue darting forward to barely graze over Cordelia’s core. Mewling, Cordelia rocks forward, pleading for more, but Misty is feeling all too playful and instead rewards Cordelia’s efforts with an even less satisfying browse, grinning at Cordelia’s huff of frustration. The headmistress lets out a low whine and Misty finally commits her mouth fully to the task, fervently tasting Cordelia’s arousal which incidentally is faintly reminiscent of one of the plants in the greenhouse––one of the nice ones, obviously––because Cordelia _is_ her herbs, like Melacine, and––she’s getting distracted. When Cordelia’s unable to stand the teasing any longer, Misty slips a finger inside her and Cordelia’s grinding wildly against it as she lifts herself up into a sitting position, steadying herself against Misty’s frame while burying her teeth into the younger woman’s shoulder to dampen the sound of her piercing keening. 

“Misty,” she hums, letting her head fall back, mouth hanging agape as she approaches climax, pace rapidly increasing as she gets closer––closer–– _closer_ ––and–– 

When she reaches the apex of her pleasure, Cordelia lets out a stream of moans and rides the dregs of her orgasm on Misty’s hand before falling back onto her pillows, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. It takes her a moment to catch her breath, and when she does, Misty is there to hold her, molding her body against Cordelia’s despite the stifling heat between them (she needs to be as close to Cordelia as possible). Misty’s hair is damp against Cordelia’s damper chest, their breathing steadily returning to some semblance of normalcy, the air swirling around them with a delicious finality, and they feel _safe_. 

Seven Wonders and witch hunters be damned (they have each other now and fighting with allies generally works out better, doesn’t it?).

 

 

 

Somewhere from within the house of Miss Robichaux’s Academy, Nan smiles. “Finally,” she says, and puts on her headphones.

 

 

 


End file.
